by D L Sims
“You’re going to make them fat,” Arlen’s voice came from behind her, where the path curved to go back to the Manor. He came around and sat beside her, taking the bread from her hands. “What are you doing?”
“Avoiding people,” she replied with a laugh.
“Khett?” he asked, now tearing the bread and feeding the birds. His hands were covered with paint. He always delved more into his art when he was upset or stressed. “I heard about what happened.”
Andi looked out at the gardens, lush and multicolored with marble statues scattered throughout the grass and golden fountains spitting water into ponds. “I’m sorry, Ari, I know how you feel--”
Arlen waved a hand. “You have nothing to apologize for, Andi. It is my cross to bear to be in love with someone who will never love me.”
“All the same--”
“All the same, nothing. You’re not at fault.”
She smiled at him. “I wish you would stop interrupting me.”
He pulled her against him, hugging her as he fed the birds. “I’m so proud of you, Andi. You’re doing so well. First place across the board.”
Andi sat up, pushing a short curl out of her eye. Their father and Master Roxell were coming down the stone path, the Champions not far behind. She squinted in the morning sun. Her father’s face was red and angry.
“They’ve found out,” she whispered, looking to her brother.
He swallowed. “Remember the plan, Andi. Keep a level head.”
Together, they met the others on the pathway. Lord Amadon’s eyes bulged from his head, his face was several shades of red and purple, and there was a vein on his forehead that looked near ready to burst.
“Explain yourselves!” he hissed, shaking with rage. He was still dressed in his sleep shirt, but a cloak was thrown over the fabric. “What is the meaning of this?”
“You still have not told us what this is,” Ikar said, leaning against a tree, eating an apple. “You drag us all out here at sunrise, still dressed in our sleep shirts. I am freezing my balls off, and for what?”
Grantham laughed. “My sentiments exactly.”
The master stood to his full height, combing a hand over his unoiled beard. It surprised Andalen how dull it looked without the pampering. “It has been brought to our attention that Lady Andalen has been participating in the Trials under the guise of being Lord Arlen.”
“How-how did you find out?”
“Luane.” The Master smiled in a way that wasn’t pleasant. His lips pulled back to bare his perfectly straight teeth. “She’s had her suspicions for weeks, and yesterday she saw Lord Arlen sneaking out of the stables after our return.”
Grant laughed, several rocks hovering in mid-air before him. “I didn’t even realize that was you at the hunt yesterday, Andalen!” His eyes swung from her to Arlen, and still, the rocks did not fall. “You both do look alike, but not enough that we should have been fooled. Well done!”
Lord Amadon breathed heavily and turned several shades of red again. “Lord Grantham, may I remind you that this is not a laughing matter.”
Grantham’s smile was big and bright. His levity was making Andalen’s panic nothing more than a small seed in her mind. He lowered his hands, and the pebbles fell to the ground with a small clatter. “You may remind me, but I will think it no less funny. I think it’s brave what Andalen is doing, and she should continue to do it.” His green eyes met hers, and he smiled. “If that’s what you wish.”
“Thank you,” her voice was small and breathless; a sound she had never heard come out from her own mouth before.
“She’s a woman!” The Master raged. “Women are not allowed to participate in the Trials!”
“Correction,” Arlen said, putting a hand on Andalen’s shoulder. “There is no rule saying a woman cannot take part in the Trials. It’s only stated that any eligible member of the five founding families aged between twenty and twenty-five can participate.”
“For three centuries no woman has shown interest in taking part in the Trials.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Andalen argued. “Maybe they were just too afraid. I’m not afraid to fight for what I want.”
Master Roxell shook his head at her words and turned to the other Champions. “What do you make of this?”
“I say let her compete.” Ikar flashed her a sympathetic look.
“And when it comes to the battles?” The Master argued. “You will have it on your conscience that you fought a woman?”
“Is it supposed to weigh differently on my conscience if she were a man?” he countered.
Andalen stepped forward, wiping her sweaty palms on her trousers. “All my life I have been training for this moment. I have been studying the politics and history of our great kingdom. I have been practicing with a sword and hand to hand combat. I’m not a dainty girl. I don’t like knitting or learning the proper way to hold a teacup. I like hunting and fighting, and I’m good at it; I could kill a man while properly holding my teacup and reciting the Forty-Two Laws of Elthare.
“The Lysins have a queen who fights alongside them in battle, she rides dragons and beheads her enemies. I like to think I’m strong like her, and I want to compete in the Trials. It has been my dream to be the queen of Elthare. Please, don’t take that away from me.”
Halon’s eyes searched hers. “Is this what you really want, Andalen?”
“It’s all I have ever wanted, Father.”
“Let’s vote,” Master Roxell interrupted. “All in favor of Lady Andalen continuing in the Trials.”
Ikar and Grantham raised their hands. Khett looked sheepish, and near tears. Andalen went to him, pleading. “Please, Khett. You know this is all I’ve ever wanted.” She lowered her voice. “You had no problem keeping my secret before, so what’s changed?”
His brown eyes met hers, watery and distant. His hand cupped her cheek, and though she knew she shouldn’t allow him the touch, she put her hand over his and held him there. She was aware of the closeness of Arlen, and the small shuffling he did behind her, but she didn’t pull away. She allowed herself the small comfort of Khett’s warm hand on her skin. “The thought of you competing in the battles--I can’t bear it.”
She turned away, and her eyes found Yvney. His hand was not raised either. He shrugged at her. “I don’t care if you compete or not. I will defeat whoever stands in my way for the throne, whether they be man or woman.”
“Pleasant as always, Yvney,” Grant chided.
Master Roxell cleared his throat. “We still have to bring this issue to a council of the families. They will decide your fate, Lady Andalen.” He turned to Arlen. “Yours as well, Lord Arlen.”
Andalen had feared this. Whenever a large decision had to be made during the Trials or when no king sat on the throne, the five noble families formed a council to discuss matters and put them to a vote. The last time someone tried to cheat during a Trial, the council had voted to have him executed. Andalen opened her mouth to argue, but Khett’s hand on her shoulder kept any words from leaving her mouth.
Arlen inclined his head, and his hands shook as he placed them behind his back. “I understand.”
“They’ve been in there for days,” Andalen complained, pacing the hall before the door that led into the council room. Her heart beat double time, and her stomach turned, nearly heaving everything she had consumed for lunch onto the marble floor.
“It has only been five hours, Andi.” Arlen crossed one leg over the other, his hand holding open a book he had been reading. He seemed calm, but Andalen knew him better than anyone. She knew to look for the subtle changes in the tightness around his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands, and the way he kept clearing his throat. “Come, sit.”
“I don’t want to sit.” Her boots continued to thud against the floor. “I want to know what they’re talking about.”
“We’ll know in time.”
She whirled on him and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her trousers. “Wh
y aren’t you more anxious?”
“One of us has to keep a level head.”
“You don’t think I’m level headed?”
“About as level headed as Isa during the Spring Luncheon.” Arlen mimicked the panicked face Isa usually wore when preparing for the two day long event she had to cook for when winter ended and the flowers began to bloom.
That made her laugh, and she sat, pulling her knees up so she could rest her chin on them. Her hands were cold and frail. She was too hot and too cold all at once. “Do you think they’ll arrest us?”
He closed his book, considering her words. “They might. We did deceive the crown.”
She patted his hand where it rested on his knee. “I’m sorry for putting you through this.”
His smile was tight and not quite forgiving. “Well, it’s too late now. We’ve come too far.”
The door opened, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet castle. Khett exited, and Andalen searched his features for some sign about their fate, but his face was unreadable. “They’re waiting for you.”
They stood and followed Khett into the room. The other Champions, and the Lords--and Lady Monneaire--of each house sat around a large wooden table atop the dais. Two chairs stood before the steps leading up to the table; they were wooden and rickety, and creaked as Arlen and Andalen lowered themselves into them. Even though her father was on her side, she couldn’t meet his gaze.
The faces around them remained unreadable, even as Master Roxell stood, and Khett took his seat. He rounded the table, hands behind his back, his hair and beard gleaming in the light of the lamps as he looked down on Arlen and Andalen. “The council and your fellow competitors have come to an agreement.”
Andalen shifted in her seat. Oh, Gods.
“It has been decided that Lady Andalen may continue in the Trials, but must take the Knowledge Trial for herself. Lord Arlen’s scores will be erased and replaced with her own.” He cleared his throat before continuing, “As a punishment for deceiving the crown, Lady Andalen will pay the royal bank five-hundred gold coin and begin the battles with a penalty.”
She could live with their decision. She wasn’t worried about what was going to happen to her. “What about Arlen?” She looked at their father.
Lord Amadon looked ill, and she saw it then, how much it pained him to make this decision. The others sat still beside him, eyes averted, faces drawn.
Master Roxell answered, “Lord Arlen will be stripped of his family’s title and branded a deserter.”
“No!” Tears blurred her vision, and she jumped up. Her stomach felt hollow. A hand came down on her shoulder, pushing her back into her seat, and she looked up into the stern eyes of the Master’s guard she had not noticed before. She turned back to Master Roxell and the council. Her father. “No, please. It wasn’t his idea!”
“There’s no other way, Lady Andalen.” His eyes darted away from hers as she met his. “We’ll allow Lord Arlen to remain with you during the Trials, but as soon as they are over he will be branded and exiled.”
Sorrow and guilt clawed at her from the inside, tearing her apart, stripping her, leaving her bare and empty. “Please,” she begged. Arlen would be a pariah, a wanted man if he ever stepped foot on Eltharian soil again. He would have to take the last name of an Odenmal orphan if he did not choose a name for himself. “There has to be another way. Father?”
Halon wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Andi.” Her brother’s soft voice came from beside her, and she turned her head, meeting watery brown eyes. His face was calm. A small smile graced it. He had accepted his fate. She wished he had fought, kicked and screamed along with her. How could he just accept that this was happening? “We knew it would come to this.”
“I did not! I didn’t know you would be banished from Elthare!” She was crying freely, tears streaming down her face like waterfalls. She had expected to be jailed together, possibly beheaded, but not this. She hadn’t expected to be separated from him. “Ari, this is the end.”
He took her hand, turning towards her. “This isn’t the end. You will fight, and you will win. You will be the best queen Elthare has ever witnessed.”
“Do you accept these conditions?” The Master asked.
Arlen turned his head. “We do,” he said before Andalen had time to argue.
Chapter
Twelve
The Rivland tavern was not like the taverns in the other villages. Like everything else in the city, it was marble and gold, and the smell of body odor and stale alcohol was absent. The patrons were quiet, talking in their small groups over their drinks, whispering in corners about their classes at the university or talking about their different trades in tones so low, Grant could hear his own breathing.
A lute player sat on a stage, dressed in common, but still fine fabric. He was a handsome fellow with blond curls and a square face. The barmaid brought him a drink, which he accepted with a smile as he continued to play. She made her way back to Grant’s table, his pint of ale in her hand and a smile on her pretty face.
“Here you are, love.” She set the ale on the tabletop and leaned over, offering him a peek down her shirt. “I have a room above if you are interested.”
Grant leaned back and folded his arms, appreciating the way the light hit the barmaid’s face. “Oh?” He picked up his ale and took a long drink as the lute player watched him, a smile curving on his square face. Since entering the Trials the prospect of bedding random men and women had raised significantly, which amused Grant.
“I’m rooting for you in the Trials,” the barmaid said, coming around the table to sit in the seat that had his boots on it a moment ago; she didn’t bother brushing off the dirt. “I grew up in Oszerack. In the orphanage.”
Grant snorted. “Another Oslan in my life,” he scoffed. Oslan being the surname given to the orphans of Oszerack. “Milden was enough, thank you.”
Their relationship had ended in a fiasco. He had proposed on the eve of his twentieth birthday, and she flat out said no, offering no further explanation before she fled the village to live in the northwest. It was only last year that Grant had gotten the reason for her answer. He should have known that he would never have been able to tie Milden down. She was independent and free-spirited. Being the wife of a Lord would never have made her happy.
The barmaid’s eyes brightened. “I know Milden. She was with me at the orphanage. We’re very good friends.”
“As were we.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, running his fingers along the rim of the glass. “What’s your name?”
“Pialma.”
“Pialma.” He was tempted by her offer; she smelled a little like roses and wine. “I thank you for the offer, but maybe another time.”
Her face fell. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
Grant smiled and stood, bumping the table, which made the three empty glasses clatter and the half-empty one sway slightly. “You didn’t overstep. Your invitation was lovely, and any other time I would gladly accept, but it would be unfair to accept your invitation when my heart belongs to someone.” He dug some coins from his purse, placed the amount to pay for his drinks on the table, and handed her the rest. “Give these to the lute player. He plays well.” He looked over at the man, returning his smile with a wink.
Grant turned and exited the tavern. The night was chilled, promising the arrival of autumn. He pulled his cloak around him, hating the cold north-west breeze that came off the ocean.
“You need thicker clothes,” Milden’s voice came from his left.
He turned, spotting her standing in the doorway to the dress shop. Her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders, and a pencil stuck behind her ear.
“Perhaps you can make me some,” he replied, crossing the white cobbled street to her, dodging Rivs as they made their way to their destinations, all dressed smartly in their fine attire.
“Perhaps,” she echoed with a smile, leading him into the shop.
The s
hop was warm and smelled like some sort of spice. The Seamstress, Madame Ofra, was behind the counter showing a woman a pair of boots that would go well with the trousers and coat she had picked out for her husband.
“Is it true you bedded Yvney Dominikov? That man is a massive ass.”
She smirked at him over her shoulder. “It’s true. He may be an ass, but he’s handsome, and he was nice to me.”
Grant grumbled. He couldn’t argue with that. Yvney was handsome, but he doubted the man could be nice.
“He tried to blackmail me, Milden.”
“Yes, I know.” She let out a little chuckle. “But he’s tried to blackmail everyone.”
“You sound as if you like him.”
Milden shrugged. “Maybe I do.”
Grant opened his mouth to ask how she could possibly like someone like Yvney Dominikov, but she cut him off before he could get anything out.
“You smell like a pub floor,” Milden said, wrinkling her nose.
“Thank you!” He beamed. He wanted to know more about what she found so attractive about Yvney, but found this to be a much better topic of conversation. “I just came from the pub, where sadly I was not on the floor, but on a chair. I did make friends with the barmaid. She knows you.”
“Pialma,” Milden said with a smile, going around the counter next to the seamstress and pulling a measuring tape from underneath. “She’s a nice girl. Too forward.”
Grant laughed as Milden began measuring his shoulders. “Hypocrite. If I remember correctly, I believe it was you who kissed me first behind the orphanage. And you like sex just as much as any man I have come across.”
Milden’s eyes were distant and fond, lost in the memory of their past relationship. “Did she make a pass at you?”
